


Chopin x Liszt smut

by Ace of Smut (AceOfShipping)



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Classical Music RPF, Composers - Fandom
Genre: Chopin on a kitchen counter, Liszt being Liszt, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Yaoi, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-06-04 07:05:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6647077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfShipping/pseuds/Ace%20of%20Smut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Franz Liszt has always adored Frédéric Chopin, and his music. One night, he decides to risk it all and take his chance. But Chopin is less than eager.</p><p>Smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Franz Liszt. That music, those melodies…

That hair. That man.

Frédérik Chopin shook his head – no, no, no, no, he wasn’t going to let his thoughts stray like that, certainly not! He didn’t want to think about the way Lizst’s hands had moved across the claviature of the grand piano, how his long fingers had coaxed such harmonies out of the keys, and then the strings of a violin. Soft one moment, strong and quick the next, the melodies had been…

Oh god, he should never have gone to the concert. Now that damned Liszt wouldn’t leave his thoughts. He should have foreseen it, should have known. The man had some kind of deal with the devil, surely, to spread such… such… lust, that even Chopin did not go untouched.

“Damn it all.” He hissed, angrily throwing down his pen. He couldn’t write music like this, all that swirled around in his head were Liszt’s themes, and he refused to make variations of anything that man had written. Refused. Absolutely. Then Chopin would rather write nothing at all until those silly little melodies were out of his head!

Chopin rose from his chair, leaving his desk and his piano and his half-finished, Liszt-ridden composition behind with a huff. It was late, and he had been toiling with that piece of music for long, fruitless hours, and his frustrations were only outdone by his hunger. He had, of course, typically him, sent his few servants home. Even the cook. He was quite certain that he had something to eat somewhere, but he wasn’t actually sure of it. And he was hungry…

This was looking to be a very long night.

His mind wandered as he walked towards the kitchen in his relatively modest townhouse – he wasn’t often in the lower regions of his abode, usually he spent most of his time in his own room, composing, or entertaining the occasional guest in his living room. But now, he was on the hunt for food.  
When he got to the kitchens, there was a flickering light, a candle. He frowned. Surely, none of his hired helps would forget a lit flame? They knew the dangers of unattended fire, as everyone did. As he moved towards the light, he found himself wondering why exactly he was sneaking, why his breath had sped up, why-

There was a scent in the air. 

He turned around to find someone standing behind him. Before the stranger had a chance to speak, Chopin had jumped backwards and nearly smacked the candle to the floor.

“WHAT THE BLAZING HELL, LISZT!” Chopin recoiled and backed away from the man who stood before him wearing a…. a smirk! “You do not turn up in people’s houses uninvited, you fiend!”

“I brought food.” Was the answer, and Liszt sounded as though he knew of a secret that Chopin certainly didn’t want him to know. That was worrisome.

“I do not care just – “ Chopin halted when Liszt stepped aside to reveal, on the table, stacked high on a plate…

“Zrazy.” Liszt spoke when Chopin was obviously unable, “I was told you had a fondness for it.”

Chopin eyed the man with deep suspicion, was it poisoned? Was this an attempt at murder? Most importantly, who in the blazes had told him?

“Yes… And so?” Chopin struck back, “That hardly gives you the right to barge into my house and attempt to give me a heart attack!” True, Liszt hadn’t exactly been barging in, but the fact remained that he was here, and he had definitely not been invited, so how had he –

Oh. Chopin would have to fire his maid. He only hoped she wasn’t in unfortunate circumstances by now.

“I was worried about you. You looked thin at the concert.” Liszt tilted his head, a look of concern in his eyes. Surely, that was nothing more than pretense.

“… You… saw me at the concert?” Was he… were they…. Blushing? Both of them? Chopin could feel heat rushing to his cheeks, to his entire face, as it were, and it did not please him. Why couldn’t his body control itself?!

“Please just eat.” Liszt said, moving a little further away both from the table and from Chopin.

The Pole sighed. Well, food was food… and he was rather partial to Zrazy.

Neither man was quite sure how food turned into Liszt backing Chopin against the wall while the latter protested half-heartedly, eventually silencing him with insistent lips. Chopin certainly didn’t know how he had managed to let Liszt slip through his careful defenses, but oh, that tongue was begging for entrance and parting his lips a little surely wouldn’t hurt?  
There was a hand on his thigh.

“Mmh!” Chopin protested, or rather, tried to. It came out as more of a moan, really. And that was what it turned into when that same hand travelled upwards, closer and closer to the bulge in the Pole’s trousers. “Don’t you dare…” It was merely a whisper, a momentary break of the kiss, Chopin trying to maintain his steely composure. But Liszt didn’t heed his words. Slowly, he began to trail kisses down the other man’s jawline, then his neck, as his hand palmed at the front of Chopin’s trousers.

Chopin threw his head back against the wall, biting his lower lip as he began to breathe irregularly, fighting to avoid letting out any unseemly noises. His fingers entangled themselves in Liszt’s silken hair, while his other hand grasped his lapel. Everything was suddenly so hot and stuffy, little pearls of sweat were beginning to form on his neck, and Liszt tasted salt on his skin. This, he took as his cue to gently, carefully, begin to unbutton Chopin’s jacket.

A pair of long, slender hands grasped his rather roughly and stopped him. He looked up at Chopin, whose chest was heaving. He was staring at him with a wild look in his eyes.

“No. No! I’m not – I don’t want you!” The sharp words were hissed through clenched teeth, and they stung. Liszt could feel that sting deep in the root of his heart. He loved the man, cared for him, admired him – and he had been worried for him. How many nights had he not seen Chopin turn up for his concerts, though hiding, and watched him steadily grow thinner and paler?  
… and how long had he not wanted to taste those lips for himself?

Liszt sighed against Chopin’s neck, his hot breath making the Pole shiver just slightly, and involuntary reaction. “You want me to stop?” Liszt asked. A gentle kiss against a particular spot at the junction between Chopin’s chin and neck kept him silent, stopping him from giving the answer that neither man really wanted to hear.

Tentative hands began unbuttoning Chopin’s jacket again, then his shirt, and suddenly there were cold fingers running over his sensitive skin. Once again, this time in earnest, Liszt looked the man he loved in the eyes.

“Do you want me to stop?” It was a very real question now. A no would be a no, and Liszt would be pleased with it. But a yes would mean that he would stop. He didn’t want to do something that Chopin didn’t want.

Breathing heavily, Chopin found that he missed Liszt’s hands on him, he missed those soft lips against his own, he wanted, wanted with an almost unearthly passion. Damn that man.

“… No… please… please do not stop.”

Oh god, immediately those lips were back, kissing him senseless, those hands were roaming freely across his body, clothes were thrown to the floor just as quick as Liszt could remove them from them both.

… And suddenly Chopin found himself laid out on the kitchen counter, Liszt ever so carefully working him open, fingers slick with some kind of oil or other that he’d found in the first and best cupboard that he looked in. It felt so strange and yet so… natural, damn him. Clearly, Liszt knew what he was doing, but Chopin was too far into this mess now to get out again. And he wanted Liszt.

He wanted him badly.

When Liszt finally took him, it was gentle. Even so, there was a constant, burning pain. Chopin, however, barely had a chance to sense it, since Liszt’s mouth was crashing against his own, and his hand was languidly stroking Chopin’s manhood. And then, suddenly, Chopin saw stars.

“O mój Boże!” The words had rolled across his tongue before he even had a chance to think. He could barely even form straight sentences in his head, no wonder he was reverting back to Polish. 

”Does it feel good?” Liszt somehow managed a straight sentence, that bastard, as he slowly, almost casually, began thrusting. His rhythm was gentle and slow, letting Chopin slowly get used to the sensation.

”Zamknij się. Nie przestawaj.” Was all the answer given. Liszt, of course, didn’d understand any of that, but he got the general idea. He picked up the pace a little, earning him the first proper moan that he’d heard from the Pole’s lips. Franz Liszt did indeed know what he was doing. He would never have dared try his luck with Frédéric Chopin if he wasn’t certain of his ability to provide the man with pleasure.

Pleasure indeed. Chopin was far gone now, holding on to Liszt as though he was all that bound him to life, as he babbled more or less coherent strings of words, both German, Polish and French. They all meant the same thing. More. Jeszcze. Encore.

They continued like that for a while, Liszt adhering to Chopin’s breathless pleas, until the Pole sudddenly stiffened, teeth grinding together as he came crashing over the edge. Liszt, having been holding back, came after only a few further thrusts, careful to pull out first. They caught their breaths together, a mess of entangled limbs, until Chopin had just about recovered his wits.

The Pole simply pushed Liszt away without a word, gathered his clothes and left, walking up to his room.

Liszt was wise enough to not follow, even though he wanted to. He wanted to so very badly. Oh, how wonderful simply lying with Chopin in his arms would be. To be allowed to love him, not just lust for him!

But Franz Liszt knew Frédéric Chopin. And thus, he dressed, and left. 

Both slept alone that night, one yearning and the other denying to himself the sensation of missing someone to hold. Someone warm and sweet-scented. Someone named Franz Liszt.


	2. Liszt on a Piano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much what the title says. Liszt on a Piano, and Chopin on a sofa.  
> Plus endearments in Hungarian and Polish.

Weeks passed, and Chopin avoided Liszt like the plague. He would sometimes see him in a restaurant where he was going, and immediately change his evening plans. He didn’t go to the theater, didn’t attend concerts, tried not to leave the house. But the memory of what they had done – of what Liszt had done to him – persisted in the form of a dull ache in his body, and filthy thought when he lay alone in his bed at night. Those thoughts were haunting him. Thoughts of Liszt claiming him for his own, marking him, and, even worse, thoughts and fantasies of what he wanted to do to Liszt. Places he wanted to touch, kiss, and claim.  
It was horrible. Sinful – and it haunted his every step.

He couldn’t write without Liszt sounding in his music, couldn’t keep his usually calm temper in check, he was frustrated beyond recount, in ways that made him want to do unseemly things to himself at night.

It got to a point where he simply couldn’t ignore it. And one evening, he was done denying himself what his body so obviously needed. He couldn’t write music, for the first time in years he had had to ask for a deadline to be pushed, which was a horrible defeat for a proud man.

He cursed himself silently as he sneaked – sneaked, him! – towards Liszt’s dwellings. The other man had a smaller home than Chopin, but that meant fewer servants, if any. And possibly also a locked door. As Chopin grasped the door handle, he was aware that he might have to actually knock on the door. That was not a nice prospect.

The door was, surprisingly, unlocked. Chopin entered quietly, locking the door behind himself and wincing at the loud click. He wasn’t sure why he was sneaking still, his steps as silent as he could keep them, but there it was. 

Liszt was composing, the sound of his piano reverberating in the small house. Oh, he was smashing those keys! What on earth happened to the ‘Piano’ in Pianoforte? Chopin grimaced, the poor clavier would not last very long with that sort of treatment, but there was still something rousing about the music. Intense. Something that rekindled that heavy fire in Chopin’s stomach.

Oh, god damn that Liszt.

Gently, afraid that it might creak, Chopin pushed open the door to what was Liszt’s living room. It was small, a pianoforte, a sofa, shelves upon shelves of sheet music and books. No surprise there.

Suddenly, as Chopin let his gaze wander across the room for a moment, the music stopped.

“It is not polite to wander into other people’s homes without invitation, Chopin Úr.” Liszt’s voice caught him unawares, and Chopin’s gaze immediately shifted back to him. Liszt was glancing over his shoulder, his face in sharp profile against the blazing fire in the fireplace on the opposite wall. Chopin swallowed hard, opening and closing his hands in an attempt to fight the feelings rising in him at the sight of those elegant features, the arched nose and the hair like dark silk.

“I do believe I had good enough reason to think myself invited, Panie Liszt.” Chopin kept his voice steady, managing in spite of everything to keep his exterior calm, even if his interior was far from it. Liszt huffed, but his lips curled in a brief smile as he slowly stood up, elegant as ever, leaning nonchalantly against the piano.  
“Well, I readily admit that I had been… hoping that you would find your way here, szerelmem.” The endearment rolled past his tongue and through the air, without Liszt really meaning for it to happen. It took Chopin a moment to catch the meaning of the phrase, and when he did, his expression darkened.

”Don’t. Call me. That.” Chopin hissed through his teeth, an angry frown marring his face. Liszt bit his lower lip, seemingly nervous for once. He was aware that he had grossly overstepped a line, but he had wanted to use that endearment, and he had wanted it to be reciprocated. He had wished it, anyhow. Burningly.

“I… I am sorry.” He said, with a voice that was low with regret. He hadn’t wanted to push Chopin any further away than he already was.

Chopin drew a shaky breath, looking, though he tried his damnedest not to, at the way Liszt’s serious face was framed by his long, dark hair. “Zamknij się.” he whispered.

“What?”

“I said shut up.”

Three long steps and Chopin had pressed Liszt against the piano, their lips crashing together. Chopin was resting his hands against the surface of the instrument on both sides of Liszt, while the other man’s arms had wrapped instinctively around his waist and back. It was all Chopin this time, his lips catching Liszt’s, his tongue asking for entry. But all his movements were heeded, and all his wordless pleas were granted by an attentive Liszt, who was not going to let this moment fail because of carelessness.

Chopin’s hands were less steady and his fingers more clumsy that Liszt’s had been, but he managed to push the other man’s clothes away, somehow unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it mostly off his limbs without pulling off any buttons. Liszt was quick to return the favour, this time without interruptions or opposition. Halfway undressed, shirts hanging haphazardly from their upper bodies, they began to explore each other’s bodies in earnest, Liszt tentatively and Chopin with an almost panicked haste, like a starving man who will not taste what he is offered for sheer hunger. His hands were everywhere at once, and soon he had Liszt panting under him, leaning more against the piano than actually standing up, his legs quavering as Chopin invaded his very being. And oh, did he want it.

Liszt hooked a leg around Chopin’s hip, drawing him in so close that their erections ground together through the strained fabric of their trousers. The sudden friction seemed to make Chopin’s resoluteness waver. This did not go unnoticed.

“What is it?” Liszt asked, careful not to sound too disappointed that the almost feverish ministrations had stopped. Chopin paused for a good while, seemingly struggling with his words. Liszt waited – for what else could he do, he would not overstep any lines, he did not want to risk this – whatever the hell it was – that they had. Even if it was not all the wanted, it was still more than he could have hoped for.

“Przeklinam ten...” Chopin muttered under his breath, looking as though he was about to say something absolutely revolting, “I want… I want it like we did it…”  
Liszt silenced the rest of that uncertain stutter with a gentle kiss, having heard more than enough to know what was wanted of him. He carefully pushed Chopin backwards, turning them so that the other man was now the one pressed against the piano. Of course, this was not optimal, far from, and they’d have to move this to the couch, but not immediately. He could afford a little time to allow Chopin to readjust to their change of positions.

Liszt’s hands were far stronger, and far gentler, than Chopin’s had been, searching out sensitive spots that he had found on their previous venture, mapping skin that he had not had a chance to touch beforehand, freeing them both of the remainder of their clothing, and noticing the very moment Chopin began to show any sort of discomfort. It was just the slightest hint of a wince, but he responded immediately.

Liszt ran his fingers along the underside of Chopin’s thighs, to give him prior warning, and then promptly picked him up into strong arms and carried him to the sofa. There he laid him down gently, knowing that their bodies would press together with far more intensity than they previously had, and he didn’t want Chopin to feel intimidated in any way.

Chopin, on the other hand, was lost in the sensation of skin against skin, unable to resist obeying his body as his arms wrapped around to pull Liszt closer, and his legs wrapped around the other man’s waist, urging him forward. Liszt took the hint. With oil which he had apparently conjured up from his jacket on the floor, that fiend, he slicked his fingers and slowly began working Chopin open. Only now, he knew the man far better than he initially had. After a few strokes, he curled his fingers just right, hitting the spot that made Chopin see stars.

“Cholerny!” Chopin let out some kind of hybrid between a Polish swear and a moan, digging his nails into Liszt’s back in a way that Liszt knew would leave marks. He didn’t mind the least.

Liszt was careful, but Chopin was impatient and wanting, oh yes, wanting with a burning passion, and so, for once, Chopin took the lead. He tightened his muscles and, with quick movements, turned them around so that he was straddling Liszt. So that he was in control.

“Istenem...” Liszt gasped as Chopin grasped him and slowly took him in, his face a mask of mixed pleasure and pain. Chopin took a moment to just breathe when Liszt was buried to the hilt within him, getting just a little accumulated to the sensation that he had missed to the point of near insanity for the past weeks. Just enjoying it, allowing himself that moment of bliss before he began moving.

Liszt could feel that this was different from their first time the moment Chopin began moving, slowly. There was less urgency, less desperation and uncertainty. The both knew what they wanted, and needed, and that they were capable of going through with it. And the sight of the man he worshipped above him, making love to him, or lust in any case, was almost too beautiful for music.

”Szeretlek...” Liszt whispered, sitting up to kiss Chopin, then whispering once more against the sensitive skin on his neck, ”Ön nem szeretné, de én Szeretlek.”  
Chopin’s eyes darkened, not out of anger, but sadness. The sadness and reluctance of realisation.

“Kocham Cię...” It was barely even a whisper, but it was there. And Liszt knew what it meant. He could have wept for joy in that moment.

“Szeretlek.” Liszt replied, wrapping his hand around Chopin, to distract him. Their lips met again, this time in a slower, gentler kiss. Perhaps it as Liszt imagining things, but it felt as though they were both pouring emotions into it. He certainly was.

They loved in silence, until Chopin stiffened, quavered and came crashing over the edge, Liszt following him almost immediately. 

The two of them lay together, still joined, catching their breaths.

“Are you… going to leave?” Liszt asked, hoping, against hope, that the answer would be negative.

Chopin sighed, trailing patterns against Liszt’s collarbone. “… Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” Liszt whispered, knowing that it was more than just an answer. It was a prayer, a plea. A hope.

“Then I stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hungarian:  
> Úr Chopin: Mr. Chopin  
> Szerelmem: My love  
> Istenem: My God  
> Szeretlek: I love you  
> Ön nem szeretné, de én Szeretlek: You do not want it, but I love you
> 
> Polish:  
> Pan Liszt: Mr. Liszt  
> Zamknij się: Shut up  
> Przeklinam ten: Curse it  
> Cholerny: Damn!  
> Kocham Cię: I love you


	3. Liszt on a bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chopin and Liszt have been lovers for a while, and Chopin wants to try something different. This is smut per request, and I suck at these kinds of summaries.

It had become a habit now, more than anything else. Keeping it secret, that was. Chopin refused to speak of Liszt to any of his friends, while Liszt did not hide his professional admiration of Chopin. Thus, they kept any suspicions from arising about what they were really doing.

Chopin still couldn’t entirely come to terms with it, but there was no denying what had blossomed between them, especially not when it haunted his dreams and made him wake up craving the other man, touch, scent, and taste. Just holding him was something the Pole missed more than he cared to admit whenever the other man was not around. And he could never get enough of it.

It was more often him that came to Liszt than the other way around.

The craving for the other man always got stronger with stress, and Chopin often cursed himself for feeling as though the notes came easier when he was composing after visiting Liszt. 

This time, however, he had not had the chance or time to do so. He had a deadline tomorrow, and the piece was nowhere near finished. And he was making very little progress. It was frustrating, and his stress only grew as the shadows on the floor did, until it eventually began overshadowing everything as the sun disappeared from the sky, replaced by a slightly ill-boding waning moon.

The ink on the pen had all but dried by now, not a single note had been put to paper for hours, and Chopin was staring at an unfinished mass of harmonies that had yet to be fulfilled and come to completion. He couldn’t figure out how to draw them together properly, none of his usual methods worked, no amount of modulation would help this, it didn’t feel right, and it also didn’t fit in all practicality –

“Frédéric.” A voice sounded behind him that made him jump and drop his pen to the floor. He knew that voice, though, so the shock did not last.

“Franz.” Chopin turned on the piano bench, finding Liszt right behind him, so close that they almost touched. Without invitation, the other man sat down behind the Pole, placing his hands over Chopin’s smaller ones.

“Play it, please.”

“It’s not finished.” Chopin protested.

“Play.”

At Liszt’s insistence, Chopin began playing the half-completed piece, while the other man’s hands hovered above his own. Suddenly, Liszt began completing his lacking harmonies, bridging, creating counterpoint. It was as though the Hungarian was playing around, trying things that Chopin had not thought of, but which were not out of his usual style. It was strange to hear Liszt play like this, as they were usually far apart in musical execution.

Before long, they were through with the piece, and Chopin sat for a moment, his brow lined in thought.

“Yes.” He suddenly said, reaching for his pen. He began scribbling on the sheet music, adding, taking away, perfecting. Liszt sat silently behind him, pressed against Chopin’s back like a warm pillar of support. With him there, the piece was completed. But the moment the Pole put down his pen, he felt to large hands on his thighs, and Liszt’s warm lips hovering close to his ear.

“Now that I have helped you finish, perhaps you’d care to return the favour, hm?” the other man whispered, and a shiver went down Chopin’s spine when he suddenly noticed the not-so-small erection grinding against the small of his back. He gasped, leaning back to rest his head against Liszt’s shoulder, as the other man’s hands travelled upwards, sneaking underneath his shirt, fingers ghosting against his sensitive skin. Liszt’ leaned down slightly, capturing Chopin’s lips in a slow, languid kiss. It was immediately returned, Chopin practically melting under Liszt’s touches.

Before either man knew it, Chopin had turned and straddled Liszt on the piano bench, his own back resting against the instrument itself so as to allow the other man to lean forward. They shared another kiss, the dominance of it going back and forth as the very equal partners began the task of undressing one another. Liszt was quickest, his mouth moving to Chopin’s collarbone to gently nibble at the milky white sensitive skin there, earning him a gasp. He bit down gently, feeling the other man stiffen and then sigh, and when he reached down to the front of the Pole’s trousers, he found Chopin growing just as hard as he himself already was.

Both their movements grew heated and slightly fumbling after that. They managed, somehow, to stumble to Chopin’s bed, constantly kissing, touching, feeling one another. Liszt ended up below the other man, suddenly stripped of power as he was thoroughly explored, Chopin mapping out his body with lips, tongue, and gentle fingertips. He came up again, reaching into a drawer on his bedside desk, pulling out a vial of what Liszt guessed was oil. He’d learnt. But just as Liszt was certain of what Chopin wanted, the other man made a surprising request.

“Can I…” He swallowed hard, seemingly finding it hard to say, “can we switch this once? I want to try… The other way.”

Liszt was quiet for a moment, looking a heavily blushing Chopin in the eyes. Then, he whispered, “… Yes. But be gentle, I haven’t done it that way before.” He knew he sounded more confident than he was, truthfully he was quite nervous, but he knew what he wanted. He wanted Frédéric Chopin. In every way he could have him. Or be had by him.

Chopin nodded, forcing down the surprise that threatened to well up within him and make him change his mind. He knew what to do, remembering all the times Liszt had done this to him, and he kept a careful watch on the other man as he slowly began working him open. Liszt’s hands grasped the bedsheet tightly, his head thrown back as he panted, biting his lower lip in an attempt to stay quiet. When Chopin’s tentative fingertips brushed against his prostate, he failed to silence himself and let out an obscene moan that was almost too loud for both their tastes. Chopin paused his movements and looked at Liszt with no small amount of amusement, while the other man blushed heavily, embarrassed by his own reaction.

Neither had known Liszt to be vocal.

Chopin gave a half-smile, slowly resuming his work. Whenever he knew he would brush against that spot, he captured Liszt’s lips in a kiss that muffled his cries of pleasure, swallowing each moan with rising pleasure. When he finally entered the other man, he did so with incredible gentleness, moving so slowly it was almost painful to hold back. Liszt, on the other hand, had to bite into his own hand to keep from moaning, though he could not silence himself completely. Chopin secretly relished every sound that tore itself from the other man’s throat.

Once he was completely sheathed, the Pole looked down at Liszt through half-lidded eyes, studying his face for any signs of pain or discomfort. There were none.  
“Are you alright?” He asked, needing verbal assurance. Liszt, whose eyes had been closed, opened one eye slightly to glare at him.

“Igen. Istenem, igen. Ne hagyja abba.” He answered. Chopin, of course, did not understand any of that. He sighed, and gently kissed Liszt to bring his attention back.  
“What are you saying?”

“Yes. Don’t stop.”

Gasping, Chopin slowly began to move, having to exert strict control over himself several times to not come before Liszt. Each time he paused, the same plea was on the other man’s lips. Liszt was a mess beneath Chopin, letting out the most delicious sounds, occasionally biting into the Pole’s shoulder to silence himself when Chopin began to increase his pace and force. 

Chopin was a quiet lover, gasping and panting but never more than that. Liszt was loud enough for both of them.

At some point, Liszt wrapped his legs and arms around Chopin, pulling him as close as he would come. The embraced was returned, and with a strung grip on his lover, Chopin started a pace that was bordering on rough and forceful. Each time his prostate was hit, more and more often now, Liszt had to bite into the other man’s shoulder, leaving an increasingly red array of teeth marks on the pale skin. And for every one of them, a gentle moan was coaxed from between Chopin’s lips.

Eventually, Chopin’s pace became irregular, as he grew increasingly unable to restrain himself. Liszt held on tighter, throwing his head back as he was overcome, and a strained mix between a moan and a groan escaped him as he came. Chopin followed him after a few thrusts, silencing himself by crashing his lips against Liszt’s in a kiss that was all careless ecstasy.

It took them both a moment to come down to earth again, and when they did, their limbs were still entangled. They were a panting mess, both of them, but Chopin recovered first.

“I cannot believe I took your virginity.” He mumbled, pressing a trail of kisses against Liszt’s neck. The other man sighed contentedly.

“Mmm, I would want no one else to do it.” He responded, his fingertips lazily trailing circles against Chopin’s back.

The Pole couldn’t help himself. He began chuckling. Liszt stopped his movements to look at his lover with slight confusion, “What is so funny?”

“I can’t believe you still had a virginity in the first place.” Chopin began to properly laugh at that, and Liszt responded by smacking his arm with a huff. He couldn’t help but be slightly smitten by that laughter.

“Fogd be a szád, or I’ll leave you right now.” He was pretending to be annoyed, and Chopin knew it. This was why he pressed a kiss against Liszt’s lips again, pressing him down into the bed with his entire weight.

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Mmm, you would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hungarian translations:  
> Igen. Isten igen: Yes. God yes.  
> Nem hagyja abba: Don't stop.  
> Fogd be a szád: You shut up.

**Author's Note:**

> Polish translations:
> 
> O mój Boże: Oh my god  
> Zamknij się: Shut up  
> Nie przestawaj: Don't stop


End file.
